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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817909">fermenting in your own sick</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sedusa/pseuds/Sedusa'>Sedusa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brief Psychosis Implications, Bugs &amp; Insects, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Gen, Gross, I cannot emphasize how gross this fic is enough y'all, Jeremy's Mom's Side of the Family Sucks!, Maggots, Rotten Food, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Sexual Acts Involving Insects, The SquipJer is Implied and One-sided, Trans Jeremy Heere, Trans Male Character, Unsanitary, Watersports</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:00:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817909</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sedusa/pseuds/Sedusa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it doesn't get better. Maybe he was getting worse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jeremy Heere/Jeremy Heere's Squip</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>fermenting in your own sick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've been sitting on this fic for months before I decided it's refined enough to post. I hope y'all enjoy it as much as I do.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The wheel started turning the day Christine dumped him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--Well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Life for Jeremy hadn’t been great for a while, actually. Perhaps it was more accurate to say she was the trip off the cliff, the shove in the right direction. A more appropriate place to pin this chain of events on might have been the day his mother left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>… no, no. Later than that. The visits to his family, the time spent alone with his grandfather (and his grandfather’s hands, everywhere), the lack of maternal affection. His birth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really, Jeremy came out of the womb infected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that was beside the point. It really was this latest disappointment that finally convinced him to press at extremes, he thinks. It’s no one’s fault, not really, not when they’re all broken, pitiful children--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Right. Maybe it’s the Squip’s fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy had nothing to lose by this point either way. His father’s progress climbed, only to collapse dramatically in a pool of self-hatred and half-eaten bologna sandwiches. Jeremy was now facing a messier apartment and a sad lump who spent all his time hiding in his room, ashamed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He worried about his father a lot, yet he felt so bitterly frustrated. He could barely handle himself, much less parent his own father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was made worse, of course, by a lack of friendly support. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael had gone back to giving him the cold shoulder, a months-long argument that kept rekindling at seemingly random disagreements, but really, it was the same problem they’d had since the moment Jeremy bought that fucking pill. He had a feeling they weren’t going to make up this time. They both wanted to be the people they used to be, and that was never going to happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Endless little isolations piled up. His “new friend’s group” dissolved, Rich transferring to juvy, video games and internet communities becoming less and less appealing. His life was degrading to nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rotten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, he was rotten alright. Rot, rotting, filthy, sick. It was the only sensible answer for this utter social rejection, this dark pit of numbness swelling deep inside him, making his skin crawl. Soon he’d fold in on himself, sucked into the black hole of his own decay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So then he started cutting himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t do much, outside staining everything and making his arms itch so bad he hadn’t stopped picking at the wounds for weeks now. Frustrated and blue balled, he flipped through a few self-destructive measures, finally landing on shock videos. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about the sight of people engaging recklessly, unbothered by things like blood and filth, got him simultaneously depressed and excited. The high of emotional recoil, the distress, the disgust. The pain. It was the only way he could pause his rapid decline, allowing him brief moments to feel something normal--awful, sure, but normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t long before his fantasies began to reflect this newfound obsession.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truthfully? He’d always been a degenerate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His Squip had pegged him right as a masturbation-obsessed loser. He was a furry, a gore-hound, a collector of lolicon and watersports and incest; if it was drawn, he could get off to it, but he’d never taken in interest in <em>real humans</em> doing <em>real disgusting human things </em>before. There was always an impersonal barrier between himself and his kinks, as the objects of his affection were little more than 2D sockpuppets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once living creatures became involved, fleshy and aroused, the guardrail between himself and his worst desires slipped away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Couldn’t his rotten, festering self soil this own body the way he deserved?</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Maggots. Earth Mother’s garbage disposal, tearing through anything unsightly and organic. Ripping through apples, pork bellies, and the living dead; a million little rice balls, tiny segmented bodies squirming in a mass, their digestive juice dripping from their mouths as they burrowed through their meals.</span>
</p><p><span>Jeremy had always found them fascinating, in a detached, boyish sort of way. They’re interesting creatures, a mixture of underrated and</span> <span>rightfully feared; their sudden appearance rarely brought good news, yet the world would undoubtedly be worse without them. He wanted to vomit at their sight, then watch as they cleaned it up.</span></p><p>
  <span>What better creature to offer his rancid body?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Setting it up took surprisingly little effort. All he had to do was buy a turkey… well, he paid extra for the ingredients that made a complete feast. The cashier, a nice older woman, complimented him on his interest in cooking at such a young age. He’d stammered a thank you, red-faced, and slinked back home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He set the scene carefully. The Dutch pot he’d dug out of their dusty cabinets was big enough for the turkey to nest snugly atop a careful arrangement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The end result was classically all-American. A bed of quartered potatoes, bits of bell pepper, and chopped onions. Decorating the outside, whole carrots and celery stocks, along with small, stale bread rolls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pretty. Sure, it was useless, perhaps even counterproductive, but still pretty; he’d always been a sucker for a nice composition (he wanted to be a filmmaker before the Squip. He wanted to be the next Lynch. Oh, how he missed those dreams).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stuck the meal on top of the dryer for a week, watching his children grow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s interesting, actually. Jeremy left the laundry room open, making no efforts to hide the stench as the bird decayed. The room was kept alight all hours of the day, as he came and went, observing the growth with fascination and disgust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truly, if anyone were to walk around the piles of dirty clothes and half-empty garbage bags to peek at the strange pot of rotting food, they’d probably realize something was wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sure was good that no one did.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The stench was surreal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the last day of festering, Jeremy had avoided checking on anything, ready for a surprise. He went to school (it was Friday, which meant he’d get the whole weekend with his babies), got home, ignored the urge to start immediately, and went to bed. When he got up the next morning, his chest and skin ached from a lack of sleep. He’d simply been too excited, too nervous to properly rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment he entered the room, it hit him in one solid wave, crashing over him and nearly emptying his stomach. He retreated, eyes watering, grabbing his face mask. His hands had already been fitted with large, thick rubber gloves, and so when he got back in, carefully breathing through his mouth, he picked up the pot and walked it back to his bedroom. His father’s door, as always, remained closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His room had become as much a mess as the rest of the house (dirty plates and crumbled wrappers scattered about haphazardly, homework he didn’t care about tossed to the ground with report cards that went unopened), but he’d already cleared a spot on the floor. He placed the tub of filth down gently and stood back; now that he wasn’t struggling to carry it without breathing, he could take a moment to examine the sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was something viscerally unsettling about the way a mass of insects squirmed; like a pulsating beat, their little bodies slid past each other, eager for more feed, for the best chance at life. Much of the bird had been eaten away, and he could see the sunken black and green of the vegetables he’d added to the dish. For a moment, he thought about how beautiful a metaphor this could make for the shallow rot of WASP nuclear families--only to scrape the thought entirely, rejecting the pretentious-ness of trying to turn this into something deeper. He’s not an artist. He thought he might’ve been, once, but to create anything meant you had to be a person, didn’t it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy was just like these brainless bugs, rolling around in their own filth. He would live and he would die, and the most he could ever say he did for society was his inevitability as worm food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a few more breaths, steeling himself. He tried to search for any reluctance, but found none. He wanted to do this, and nothing told him no, so his clothes pulled off quickly and were tossed to the side with everything else. Now he stood there, fully nude, and glanced at his open door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right across from his father’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew he didn’t need to worry about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shudder ran up his spine. His fingers were inside his cunt finally; caressing his clit and pinching his folds, as his eyes focused solely on the mass. He took a step forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>… he wanted them to know who he was. Anthropomorphizing them was useless, but he wanted their affection, their love. He took a few more steps, until he was over them, legs spread to either side of the ceramic oven.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to finish prepping things before the show could truly start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But couldn’t he give them a drink first?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a shuddering breath. This required squatting, which made hurrying almost too tempting, but when he was in the correct position, the fingers inside him pulled back to spread his labia. He closed his eyes, focusing on his lower stomach and the idea of a waterfall. It took a moment, but, sure enough--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he breathed. He was no stranger to the idea of watersports, but he always struggled to imagine the physical pleasure you could get from the act itself. Humiliating someone, or being humiliated? Oh yeah, that made sense. But wouldn’t it be silly, pissing on someone?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All at once, he understood the appeal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel his throbbing had picked up speed as his urine trickled to a stop. After a moment of clenching to see if anything else wanted to come up, he felt satisfied enough to begin prodding at himself again, pushing the pleasure further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he wanted, he could get himself off just like this. He could feel it swollen in his stomach. But, oh, there was something <em>fun</em> in edging like this…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuffled away, sitting down with his back against the edge of the bed. He couldn’t smell the mess he’d just made (though he was sure some of it had splashed to the carpet below, so it would only take a hot day for the stench to blossom), but he could see the way the withering mass glistened. It made his heart flutter happily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he’d started all of this, he’d put his phone on the floor near where he’d sat. A tripod was next to it, one of his better cameras already attached, currently off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a moment to put the tripod where he’d need it, but mostly, he wanted the phone right now. A few swipes for his passcode, and then his preferred pictures app, one with a decent editor and a data scrub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not that he thought he was attractive in any sense. He had a decent handle on his acne after the skin regime he’d been forced on to, and his complexion was… fine, but that’s about where his positives ended. The rest of him? He didn’t like to think about it. He didn’t like to know he even <em>had</em> a body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, oh, he <em>loved</em> to be sexualized.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d created a porn account around the time he switched to real people porn. Something simple, private. Image hosting. NSFW allowed. He posted so many pictures of himself, cutting or masturbating or both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The attention he racked in--and the inappropriate, creepy, earnest comments that came with--was <em>intoxicating</em>. Soon he’d have more than a few picture captions detailing his fantasies; if this went well, it would be honest-to-God amateur <em>porn</em>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, as he took a wide breadth of snapshots with his phone, he wanted lots and lots of documentation. The way his thighs looked wet. This angle towards the pot. His face, in clear view (caution had been thrown to the wind when he decided to record the act of it).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just this nearly got him off. Oh, he was right on that edge now, teetering; he <em>desperately</em> wanted More More <em>More</em>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He put his phone to the side again, squeezing his thighs together again tightly as he crawled over to the tripod. He needed the best shot; the perfectionism mixed with those abandoned passions again, and he took as long as he needed to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, the scene clicked into place. A balanced chorus washed over him, and he pressed record.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>… God, his children looked as gorgeous as the meat smelled ghastly. His eyes filled with burning waterfalls as he crawled close again, light-headed and aroused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, he was ready. He was <em>so </em>ready for them to infect, consume him; from his broken core, their little bodies would be shed, rebirthing as adult flies who’d just nest back into him. An endless loop of their creation, over and over, a cycle of deconstruction until he was purged from this godforsaken Earth so the rest of humanity could benefit with his absence. No longer a drain on society. No longer a disgusting sight. No more no more no more, bleeding into absolute nothingness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Serenity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the thought of that, two fingers found their way into the pile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The feeling was unexplainable and… wrong. Not--well, not wrong for <em>him</em>, but certainly wrong for a real person. They wiggled around his gloved hands as if they didn’t know what to make of him, simply burrowing as they had. He scooped them like dip, staring in fascination as they crawled over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed them inside him <em>now</em>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Careful not to knock the tub over, he stood again, pulling his legs apart to crouch over their enclosure. Gently, he shoved the fingers inside his dripping cunt--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--and came. Immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> His eyes exploded with stars, the world burst with color and haze, his body shaking and vagina clenching. “A-ahh…” Saliva trailed down his lips, dripping off his chin, and when his mind came back to itself he licked across his mouth, swallowing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit… shit. Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed <em>more</em>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached down, breaking off a large, greyed piece of meat covered in maggots, shoving it inside as his other hand grabbed more. He didn’t want just a few chunks, a few handfuls; he wanted it all, every single little baby inside him, filling him, infecting him.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Abandoning his fingering, his eyesight blurred again as he grabbed the rim of the pot and ground down onto the squirming mass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It only took a few bucks of his hips, rutting into the concave bird and feeling his cunt filling, before his second orgasm slammed into him, making him snap his head back to moan as his clit clenched over and over and over again. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fu~ck!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were <em>inside of him</em>. All around him, squirming deeper with nowhere to go. He could feel it against every ring of muscle, and, abruptly, he stood again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kicked the pot to the side. It scattered across his clothing, but he didn’t care; grabbing for his vibrator took a moment, every light blurred and his mind hot with delusion, but when he found it, he sat back, spreading his legs apart and shoving it against his clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“AHH!” He can feel the pain of overstimulation somewhere on the horizon, but he doesn’t give a shit. He turns the power up to full blast and grinds it against himself like he’s trying to cut through bread, gritting his teeth to stop from screaming through his third orgasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His babies are over his thighs, his hands, his carpet. Tears roll down his eyes as he keeps going, keeps going, keeps going with the need to <em>ruin</em>. He hates himself so strongly, so deeply, he needs to tear himself part outside in. He wishes he’d thought to grab the box cutter, cut through his wrists and shove slime into the wounds, but instead the other hand fingers inside himself, around the meat and the horde, as he saws pleasure into his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another orgasm, eyes rolling back in his head, stomach clenching, thighs burning. He feels like throwing up, and imagines letting himself suffocate on it. Death, death, death; all he truly is, a dead man walking, a ghost phase and a rotten body, soaking up energy and resources and converting it into a useless sorrow. Why is he still breathing? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why is he still alive?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His final orgasm comes with uncontrollable sobbing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tosses the wand with the rest of the scattered filth. His room is ruined. His body is ruined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, still full of scavengers, he crawls over to the camera, clicking it off. He grabs his phone again, takes a few more pictures for immediate posts, and then throws it just as directionless. Crawling back to the bed, he puts on the layers of panties and panty liners he’d already readied for himself. Carefully, he slipped them on, making sure they created a safety seal for his children. He moaned weakly at the way the pressure made what filled him rub against his clit, and it gave way into another weak sob. God, there were so many emotions running through him he could barely think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment he was in bed, he passed out, tears still rolling down his cheeks.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Somewhere, he could smell Lysol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was faint, and he forgot about it the moment he opened his eyes to an endless white void. There was little around him but a cold floor, and the feeling of emptiness. Wasn’t there supposed to be something inside him right now? The moment he considered it, that, too, slipped his mind. He frowned, standing up to look around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment he did, the room changed slightly. The whiteness felt softer now, more dream-like; blue pixels sparked from the air, wrapping around him and to the floor, where the icon of the Squip pieced together. Jeremy gaped at him as he opened his eyes, taking a fake breath at looking right back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-you…” Jeremy knew he should be panicked, or frightened, or… something, but he wasn’t. There was a feeling, in the distance, but it was… sad, if anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Squip’s look was as soft here as the rest of the room, a sight gentler than it ever was Before. “Jeremy,” he said slowly, as if musing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment later, he stepped forward, cupping Jeremy’s face. There was no sensation to it. That, somehow, was what told Jeremy this was just a dream. Still, he leaned into it, frowning deeply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was this what you wanted?” His Squip asked, as his voice started to slip away. Jeremy sucked in a breath that broke into a sob, desperately trying to hold on, to trick himself into feeling these fingertips against his skin. “Are you happy now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he wept, shaking his head. “No. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He woke up to a pale-colored ceiling, the checkerboard pattern full of holes swirling in his vision, the sound of a heart monitor running through his mind.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>[Based on the story of the Blowfly Girl, which has been a special interest of mine for years.]</p><p>Feel free to hit me up at any of the links here: https://fullcourseid.carrd.co/</p></blockquote></div></div>
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